


Tagelied

by kiddofx



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Strangers to Lovers, i scrambled this together drunk on wine because jaskier needs more love!, mentions of geralt, reader can be read as gender neutral, they do the do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22085320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiddofx/pseuds/kiddofx
Summary: You knew him before he knew that Witcher — you were just a traveler, always, and somehow, always, ended up in the same taverns as Jaskier did.(or; four times destiny made you cross paths with jaskier, one time you made him stay, and one time you left with him)
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Comments: 21
Kudos: 220





	Tagelied

**Author's Note:**

> not the best thing i ever wrote but i just love jaskier sooo much i had to create content and i'm gonna make that everyone else's problem!  
> please bear in my mind that i never played the game or read the books, so no guarentee anything is 100% in line with canon  
> the little verses between the paragraphs are from a german neo-medieval band called faun, the song is named tagelied.

**_One;_ **

_ Mein Lied, meine Schöne,  _

_ ist gegangen von mir,  _

_ mein Lied gegangen von mir. _

The first time you had met Jaskier was somewhere south, long before Nilfgaard conquered and claimed, both of you young and reckless and endlessly,  _ endlessly _ stupid. 

It was a simple tavern, filled with all kinds of simple people but the ale and wine were good; and you had found this as your place to stay and rest, and he had found this as his place to drink and sing. 

Drunk on wine you ended up in bed fast, messy and wet sex binding you for a night until your ways parted. You never thought you’d see him again — Jaskier was young and  **_just_ ** _ a bard _ , one of so fucking many wandering through the Continent. And you were young and  **_just_ ** _ a traveler _ , one of so fucking many wandering through the Continent. 

No person you had met around that time was someone you thought you’d see again, or  _ wanted _ to see again, at that matter — and it’s not like you’d ever care, never really bounded to anyone because why would you? You were young, and  **_just_ ** _ a traveler _ , and nothing really mattered to you. 

That night you had shared with Jaskier remained a blur in your memories, shady silhouettes moving loosely in the candlelight, all heavy breaths and sweaty skin, sloppy kisses and shaking legs. It smelled like summer air, although it was autumn and heavy rain roared outside and hit the window violently. It smelled like peach, so sweet between your bodies that you couldn’t smell the heavy scent of sex and sweat.

He felt like a whole sun, warm and radiating,  **_consuming_ ** _ in a way,  _ **_even_ ** , but always  _ oh _ so gentle and gratifying. It was  _ just _ a simple night, a simple one night stand, but Jaskier never once made it feel like that. If it had mattered to you, back then, maybe you would’ve asked yourself how he’d feel in all seriousness, in all love and affection. But it didn’t matter; and you didn’t wonder. 

Your moans sounded like a melody to him,  _ of course _ , and drunk and sleepy in the afterglow he told you he’d write a song about it. As a bard, what else could he ever say to you after a night of passionate sex? It didn’t mean anything to you, and his words were as empty as the words of many people before him. 

Too lazy and tired to care about it, you scoffed. He was just a bard, one of so many. 

And you were just a traveler, one of so many.

  
  


**_Two;_ **

_ Einst kamen wir  _

_ durch den Regen zu zweit,  _

_ einst kamen wir zu zweit _

The second time you met Jaskier, it was a couple of days before he ran into the Witcher. It was the same tavern he’d later meet Geralt in, the people ugly and filled with a bitterness running so deeply nothing could fill it, not even that sweet, honey, peachy voice. You would’ve recognized it  _ anywhere _ , and you choked on your wine when you listened to the lyrics —

that bastard  _ did _ make a song about it after all. 

Some time had passed since your first meeting in the south, in that stormy, drunk autumn night but in the end you two were still who you had been back then —  _ just a bard and just a traveler _ . Some things may never change. 

Unsure if he’d recognize you, you decided to get an ale for him and waited until he finished his songs; no one was really appreciating his singing, and it proved to you just one more that this town, and those people, just  **sucked** . 

“I didn’t think you’d pull that one off”, you said to him and when he looked up, you saw that he recognized you  **_instantly_ ** . He hummed amused and took the ale you offered. “I never lie to a beautiful lady when it comes to writing a song about her”, he replied, his smile full of sunshine and summer, although it was fucking spring, and you wondered  _ how _ he did that; summoning the sun, the feeling of summer and heat and warmth and jauntiness,  **_right_ ** _ into  _ the moment _ ,  _ **_right_ ** _ into  _ his blue, blue eyes. 

He asked about your travels and you answered, told him about where you had gone to after that stormy, drunk autumn night and who you had met. He paid for your wine, and you paid for his ale when it was his turn to tell stories. Later, you wouldn’t be able to recall any of the things he said to you; too drunk on wine again, caught in a slumber and fever caused by that summer sun he seemed to carry in his chest. 

It was around evening when the both of you ended up in a small room,  _ again _ , drunk,  _ again _ . 

The sun was setting right through the dirty window and your shadows casted long and slim figures on the wall — no need for candles or oil lamps, only the red of the burning sky and the heat between you keeping the room alight. 

Your nose was filled with the scent of peaches and summer and honey, and the sweetness of his kisses and touches made everything feel like sugar to you. 

His fingers were like feathers, so soft you barely noticed them and you couldn’t help but melting  _ only a little _ against his chest.

You left that town the next day, the people too gritty and sour for your tastes, but Jaskier stayed. 

“I smell an adventure”, he told you at dawn, sounding so convinced he  _ almost _ had you, but  _ almost _ was always just the saddest word you could think of. 

His voice raw and unfiltered like honey stuck in your head when you rode away. 

After all; he was a bard. And you were a traveler. 

  
  


**_Three;_ **

_ Einst kamen wir _

_ und das Land war noch weit,  _

_ einst kamen wir zu zweit _

_ Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty _ .

You couldn’t remember a tavern where it’s not sung. The  **_oh_ ** _ so great _ Geralt of Rivia and his  **_oh_ ** _ so brave _ travel companion — fucking Jaskier. 

The song caught on fire like a dried bush, spreading like a forest fire throughout the North. There was not a place you could go and escape it — and even if you found such a place, it didn’t take long until the song got there, too. 

And then,  _ as if you weren’t haunted enough _ , the tavern you chose to stay in until the snowfall stopped, caught on fire, too — because  _ a barb _ was there, singing that  **goddamned earworm** of a song so vividly, it got all the people fired up and singing along. That tavern had never been so alive before, such energy lying so lightly in the air, crackling like electricity, like lightning, like a thunderstorm right there, right inside the building. 

You entered that tavern, and you knew,  **_you knew_ ** who that bard was, a voice of honey and sun, of warmth and happiness. 

You stood there, dressed in your thick cape and drenched to your bone, and you  **hated** it without a reason. No sign of that Witcher, only Jaskier full of life and love and hope and happiness and confidence; filling the heavy air of ale and dirt with a certain sweetness that just seemed to cling to him. Pure, unfiltered sugar. 

You pushed your way through the people upstairs to your room but Jaskier saw you, and, _by god,_ **how** he saw you; blue, blue eyes ringing so brightly right into yours, and he went straight to your head. Straight — to — your — head. 

You froze, and sighed, and made a short movement with your head, a signal meant for him and  _ only _ him, and you knew he got it — why wouldn’t he? This was the third time your paths had crossed and destiny seemed to work hard on every crossroad you met, always gravitating to the places where you’d eventually find Jaskier. It was a joke, really. Destiny had never done one good thing for you, or so you liked to think. 

You made it upstairs and got in your bath, the hot water warming up your frozen muscles and washing off the road’s dirt. 

You’re still just a traveler. And he’s **_more_** _than just_ a bard now — a Witcher’s companion. You nearly scoffed. 

When your door opened, you were overcome with the aroma of summer, although it was  _ fucking  _ **_winter_ ** , and,  _ of course _ , peaches, because that just seemed to be Jaskier’s personal fragrance. 

“May I join you?” Oh, such a gentleman. 

“Help yourself.” 

You watched him undress and join you in the hot water. For a while, you didn’t speak — the lousy snowfall outside louder than everything else around you. 

“So you’re traveling alongside a Witcher now?”, you asked, then, because at one point the silence became just too heavy to be bearable, and he smiled so brightly and proudly at you, it hit you somewhere deep in your heart — for whatever reason. 

“And you’re traveling still all on your own?”, he asked back, but there was no reproach in his voice, no hard feelings. Just curiosity, and maybe concern — time had passed now, and you two grew older. Still a barb, still just a traveler. But older. 

“I like my own company”, you answered. “No need to adapt to anyone but myself.” 

Jaskier seemed to accept that. 

You made it out of the tub and into bed, the sheets soft beneath you, and once more it was all summer sun,  _ again _ , but this time there was no wine, no ale. Just the two of you in the candlelight, the only witnesses being the small snowflakes hitting the ground outside. It was all laughter and moans, his teeth leaving small marks wherever you let him. It smelled like peach and honey all over, like summer and easiness, like affection and warmth. His body felt right against yours, and you allowed yourself to melt into his sugar — he was like sweetener and you couldn’t get enough of it. 

The night was long but not long enough, and you were still up when the sun arose and made the sky bleed in red and orange. The snowfall had stopped, but so did the entire village — the snow too heavy for anything to be done. 

“I’m gonna stay here until the snow has melted”, you told him in the morning, now tired and heavy-eyed. “What about you?” 

Jaskier shrugged slightly, yawning. “I don’t know”, he replied, his eyes falling shut. “Waiting for Geralt to come back from his job.”

You were too tired to care at the moment. Whatever, you yelled at yourself. Whatever. 

You fell asleep in his arms with the first sunshine lightning up your room. 

It still smelled like summer. You had always loved summer. 

  
  
  
  


**_Four;_ **

_ Sei mit mir heut Nacht, _

_ denn der Morgen ist weit,  _

_ sei mit mir heut Nacht noch einmal _

You settled — so you liked to think of it. You came in possession of a small house far up north. Sometimes, when you felt like it, you came back to it, giving your horse and yourself a good rest. It was a small house, nothing special, at the edge of a harbor town. Travelers came and went along all the time, so did merchants and bandits, and you weren’t noticed. Just how you liked it. 

Sometimes you went to the nearest tavern to enjoy one, two, three cups of wine before riding home tipsy and falling asleep with a hiccups. 

Your travels had become shorter by now — you’ve traveled the Continent as far and wide you could. You’ve seen it all. 

Your desire to never remain in one place, to never be bound to anyone or anything, to taste freedom in all its shades and silhouettes, it grew small after all this time of traveling. For the longest time, it was always just you, your horse, and the endless roads in front of you. 

You came back from a short trip to a small mountain range just now, hungry and tired and thirsty, and the wine was sweet and tasty. You heard about that dragon that was supposedly hiding up there, but you couldn’t find it — you didn’t exactly go there to look for it, you were already on your way when you heard about it, and now the King wants it dead. A stupid thing. Dragons were almost extinct, and they didn’t seek harm or hurt. They just wanted to be left alone. 

It didn’t matter to you. 

That was, until a  **certain** Barb and Witcher entered the tavern. You almost choked on your wine — what a joke you were to destiny. She must be laughing her ass off, choking on tears and laughter.

Jaskier saw you,  _ of course he did _ , and he looked dumbfounded for a moment — something you always deemed impossible; his eyes were _ always just and simply  _ summer, his expression  _ always just and simply _ love. 

Jaskier had always been the kind of person to fall in love with everyone he would meet. Whoever was in front of him, they had his love. 

He excused himself from that Witcher, the ember glowing eyes following his steps right to you — the Witcher’s presence was impressive, sure. But that’s all it was to you. 

“If I wouldn’t know any better, I’d say destiny wants us to be together”, he smiled at you. 

“Coincidence is a funny thing”, you replied, the words heavy and harsher than you wanted them to be — Jaskier deserved all the best, and you knew it. 

“Mhmm”, he hummed. “Meet me upstairs?” 

You hesitated — but who were you to refuse? It was always the same with you. 

“Sure.” 

The night was young when you joined him in his little room. It smelled — like peaches and honey and summer, and it  _ was _ summer this time, the sky bright and blue even this late. Small, orange lines pushed through the sky like paper cuts, making it bleed a little pink. 

“We’re heading to the mountains tomorrow”, Jaskier told you. “To look for that dragon.” 

You lay with him, curled up against his body like you always belonged there. 

Your gaze flattered up to him. “There’s no dragon”, you muttered. “And if there was, it’s best to leave it alone.” 

Jaskier nooded, a simple and small gesture. “Just coming along to find more material for my songs”, he said. 

But you knew. You  _ knew _ it was more than just that. Geralt seemed to be a friend in his eyes, and you wished dearly that the whole thing wasn’t one-sided. 

Jaskier deserved all the best, and  _ you _ knew it. Others? Might not. 

You didn’t sleep with him that night. It was just talking, telling tales and stories. The atmosphere was light and lovely, his body warm and welcoming and you never felt as warm and welcomed. 

You never felt the need of a partner, or a lover, either — you were so deeply rooted within yourself, neither the absence or presence of power, of someone else, of love or hate could shake you. 

But with Jaskier, those roots seemed to mold. Sentimental was never a thing you liked to describe yourself with but maybe it wasn’t  _ all too wrong _ this time. 

It was the deepest of the night when you fell asleep, tangled together somehow, and you awoke when the sun rose. 

“You know”, you said to him while getting dressed, “I have a house here.” 

He looked surprised. 

“So… you know where to find me.” 

You gave him a smile, a genuine one, and he returned it. 

“I suppose I do”, he said slowly, and bridged the distance between you. Jaskier pressed a small kiss against your lips,  _ oh so sweet like he had always been _ , and you felt the sugar in your veins like an addiction you refused to acknowledge for so long. 

You bid him farewell outside the tavern, the Witcher and the others, an old man and two warriors, waiting for him.

“Take good care of him”, you said to the Witcher, pointing at his chest like a loaded gun. 

His glowing eyes watched you silently and whatever he might’ve thought, it never mattered to you. Witchers were mutants, sure, but in the end, they were just as human as anyone else. 

You let Jaskier go this day. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have. 

  
  
  
  


**_Five;_ **

_ Noch einmal Dein Atem  _

_ der Takt für mein Lied,  _

_ noch einmal dein Atem mein Lied _

It was raining. 

The fireplace in your house was warm and cozy, it smelled like food and wine, and you were snuggled in a blanket reading a book — the simple life, the simple things you always craved for. 

The rain outside was heavy and ugly, fat drops coming down hard and merciless. 

You heard a faint knock on your door and you wondered — who,  _ in hell _ , would come to visit you at this rainfall, and you were convinced someone came here to either rob or kill you, or both. 

You knew how to fight, how to defend yourself. Traveling the Continent all on your own for so long had shaped you into something harsh and solid, and you were not afraid of anything. 

With a knife in your hand you opened the door, the cold wind cutting in your house coldly but all you saw was a shrunken down person, wet and drenched to the bone, the clothes dark and heavy. 

“Jaskier?”, you asked, disbelief swinging in your tone. 

“May I come in?” - “Of course.” 

The door closed behind him and he was cold. The rain washed all away; even his scent of peaches and honey and summer, and you were sure you’ve never seen him as bad as this. 

“What happened?”, you asked, because that was a reasonable question to ask in this situation. He just shrugged and you sighed. The utter disappointment holding his body down was so obvious, you could almost guess what went down. 

“Let’s get you out of these clothes. I’ll let you a bath in, and while you warm up, I’ll dry your clothes and make some food. Good?”

He didn’t do more than nod, and the sadness in his puppy eyes hurt your heart — it felt like someone punched countless needles in your chest. 

He didn’t speak the entire time. It was fine — you didn’t want to force him. He just needed to warm up and get some food in his stomach. 

While Jaskier was upstairs, you hang this wet clothes near your fireplace and heated up the dinner you made earlier. 

Neither of you spoke a word when you wrapped him in a blanket and made him eat. 

Jaskier fell asleep like that, exhausted and sad and disappointed, in front of your fireplace, wrapped in a blanket. You stayed with him there overnight and it was the next morning he told you what happened in the mountains — the venomous words leaving the Witcher’s lips, the hurt dwelling in Jaskier’s chest and coloring his words tainted, darkening his blue, blue eyes. 

“Stay here as long as you want”, you told him. “I’d like it”, you added, and you took his hands. “We’ve crossed paths enough times for you to just stay with me. I can give you inspirations for lyrics all the time.” 

It made him smile, at least, and his blue, blue eyes glimmered a bit more once again. You couldn’t make him forget what the Witcher said to him, to poor and fragile Jaskier; Jaskier, who always fell in love with everyone around him, who’d give his heart to strangers if necessary, without hesitation or questions, who’d never harm anyone in the slightest, who’d smell like peaches and honey and summer, and who’d taste like raw sugar. 

Jaskier, who only deserved the best. 

He sniffed and looked at you with eyes as deep as the ocean. 

“I’d like that, too.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**_Six;_ **

_ Deine Schönheit sind Verse, _

_ die bleiben bei mir  _

_ Deine Schönheit sind Verse von Dir _

Time has passed.

You have heard of what happened to Cintra not long ago; and you hope that war stays away for as long as the soldiers can hold it off. 

War has never been beautiful, and Nilfgaard has never been beautiful. Combine two ugly things and you get the worst outcome. 

You hum a song slowly while preparing lunch. The sun is high and warm, and you hear Jaskier playing on his flute — he was supposed to fix the roof, and you hope for him he did. 

“Jaskier”, you call him. “Help me cook lunch.” 

The soft melody stops abruptly and not a second later his arms wrap around your waist. 

“Did you fix the roof?” - “As best as I could.” He presses a kiss against your cheek before taking a knife and cutting the meat. “We should move,'' he says, then. There’s a tone in his voice, an emotion so hidden and unremarkable that you notice right away — concern. He’s worried. 

“More North?”, you ask and he nods. “I don’t trust Nilfgaard to stop.” - “They won’t”, you agree. “We’re safe here for now. They haven’t passed Sodden.” - “Possess Sodden, possess the north”, Jaskier murmurs and you nod. “Don’t worry about it now”, you smile and brush his hands. “The day is young and beautiful. We could go to town later.” 

Jaskier hums. “Sure.” 

You work in silence, then, but the silence  _ never  _ becomes too heavy to be bearable. It’s comfortable between you, the aura filled with nothing but lightness. Destiny had  **indeed** worked hard on you. 

After eating lunch, you end up in bed, his kisses gentle and full of love, small droplets of sweat covering your skin like pearls. You climb his lap and ride him slowly, moans thick in the heated summer air, your body sinking against his with every moment, every shift. He feels good around you, in you, always had and always will. 

His teeth sink in your sensitive skin, leaving small marks, his hands heavy on your waist. 

You come with his name on your lips, collapsing lazily in his arms and he follows you shortly after, grunting satisfaction from deep within his throat. 

You’re both lazy in the afterglow, cuddled under the blanket and not thinking about getting up anytime soon. His finger draw invisible symbols on your back, so soft and gentle, it makes you sleepy. 

You’re contented, fulfilled with a satisfaction running deep in your soul. You fall asleep in his arms, safe and sound, to the rhythm of his steady breaths. 

Your sleep is calm and dreamless and you awake rested, but alone. It’s rare to wake up to him gone. From downstairs, you hear voices and you frown — you don’t know about any visitors stopping by, and Jaskier would’ve told you if he was expecting somebody. 

You get dressed but don’t bother to put your hair up. Barefooted you walk down the stairs — this is  _ your _ house after all. 

You’re sure the surprise is written all over your features when you see that Witcher — the white-haired one, Geralt of Rivia, the one who took Jaskier’s loyalty and fondness and broke both in his hands like sticks. And with him, sitting in your kitchen, is a Sorceress you’ve seen before somewhere and a child unfamiliar to you. Neither the Sorceress nor the Witcher look a day older. 

“What are they doing here?”, you ask Jaskier, not addressing them — this is  _ your _ house after all. 

“Uhhh…. You know, it’s a funny story”, he starts and you raise your brows. 

_ There is a child with them, Jaskier’s eyes say. _

_ I can see that, say yours.  _

Your gaze slides towards the girl — she is young, and you can see the things she’s been through in her eyes like she’s an open book with only pictures, so easy to read, so easy to pity. 

“It’s okay”, you say then, your eyes flattering to the Witcher. “I forgave him for the things he’s done to you.” 

You’re not a Mage or a Sorceress, not a great fighter or mutant. You’re just simply you but your words carry meaning and they carry it hard.

It’s okay is what you say but it’s not what you mean; because it’s not okay. You were the one who picked up the broken pieces of Jaskier’s heart, fragment by fragment, and carefully glued it back together with a gentleness you could hardly afford. But this is not about you, isn’t it? 

Jaskier looks at you, an emotion sparkling in his blue, blue eyes, an emotion unfamiliar to you. Something about it yells thanks and yet understanding. You’re not sure if you can give him what he wants or needs right now but who are you not to try anyways? 

So you silently walk into the kitchen and make some tea. “Let’s hear them out, then”, you say to Jaskier, still too proud to talk to your guests and the relief in his eyes moves your gut. 

He may have recovered from the venom Geralt sprayed at him all those years back but he never forgot.  _ Toss a coin to your Witcher _ , they still sing it. 

You sit down next to Jaskier, a cup of tea in your hand, ready to throw the hot beverage at the Witcher’s face if necessary. 

For years, Jaskier and you had your peace. You won’t let him threaten that — but deep within yourself you know that Jaskier is longing for adventures still; and so are you. You miss traveling more than you’d like to admit. 

You look at Jaskier and he looks back — and you  **_know_ ** he’s thinking the same as you, and he presses your hand gently. 

Destiny has worked hard on you, and you won’t let him go, and he won’t let you go. 

It’s good just the way it is. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the read!


End file.
